Morningstar opened the front door and motioned the rest to follow. He left his bible on the stoop outside, the others carefully stepping over it as they made their way to the threshold of the house.
The tiny one room house was strangely cold inside, even with a fire in the potbelly stove that transformed black coal to raging white. Being a thin girl, Diphtheria instinctively wrapped her arms around herself. Buddy’s arms took the hint and wrapped around her as well. Father Morningstar did not protest Buddy’s familiarity with his daughter.
A few lamps hung from decorative chains, adding minimal light to the various grays that colored the walls. Expertly hung wallpaper displayed alien purple flowers, the paper hugging tightly to plaster except where a ravaged and peeling section turned up and away near the ceiling; evidence of ancient water damage. The floor was bare concrete except for an irregularly cut but beautifully stitched European rug that sat straight but off-center near the middle of the room, a defective scrap bought cheap at the French Market from a Sicilian colleague.
A bed for the parents stood two feet from the crib, separated only by a small table altar on which various religious icons were propped up in odd-shaped frames. Attached to the walls were brown-toned daguerreotype photographs depicting stony-faced men with thick black mustaches standing closely behind beautiful women with lost-looking eyes. The women in the pictures sat with hands folded carefully across their laps. Save for the bed and crib, there was precious little furniture in the home.
Anabella Carolla sat silent on the floor by the crib, her arms around her knees, her face down and buried between them. The only sound was a rhythmic tapping. The rhythm was familiar to Beauregard and Buddy—but out of its normal context neither could quite place it.
Doctor Jack recognized it immediately.
Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
Over and over again. A secret knock. A desire for fun amongst friends. A plea for entry. Gentle but persuasive.
Jack walked to the crib and looked over the edge of its smoothly polished, dark-stained rail. The child was lying on his back, eyes closed. There was rapid movement beneath the lids, flitting back and forth, telling of an urgent dream in progress. Thick red welts had risen behind the baby’s ears. His little fist was rapping gently and absently, continuing the familiar rhythm against hard wooden bars. His breathing was labored, a film of sweat covering the tiny naked body that lay in a watery mixture of “chamber lye and tattlin’”—baby piss and shit. The smell of it was powerful and cut through the cold air like the blade of a dull, dirty knife.
Morningstar stepped alongside Jack. Motioned the root doctor to back away from the crib.
Rapid eye movement stopped abruptly. The child’s lips contorted as his eyes shot open, connecting with those of the preacher. A harsh, adult voice came out of the tiny mouth:
“Stupid fucking nigger. How many times do I have to tell you? This ain’t yer scene, pops. Not for you. Not your place. I shall shit down your neck, Father. And I shall shit down the necks of your children as well. Mip kit wiggity fip fah—”
Morningstar responded full-throated—his sermon-delivering voice—effectively cutting short the demon’s rant:
“Go hence, thou who comest in darkness, whose nose is turned backwards, whose face is upside-down and who knowest not why thou has come.”
“But I do know why, Father!” cackled the demon with a sleepy smile. “Higgle biggle boo! Hot cha cha cha!”
Morningstar continued undeterred, calm:
“Hast thou come to kiss this child? I will not let thee kiss him. Hast thou come to send him to sleep? I will not let thee do him harm. Hast thou come to take him away? I will not let thee carry him away.” The preacher produced a small glass container two inches in diameter from his coat pocket, removed the lid and scooped out the majority of its contents with the middle and forefinger of his right hand. “I have secured his protection against thee with bloodroot, onions and honey, sweet to men but evil to the dead.” He spread the sticky-sweet concoction over the child’s sallow chest. Then, placing his fingers to his own mouth, Morningstar licked himself clean of it.
Doctor Jack, impressed with Morningstar’s apparent knowledge of herbal magic, smiled weakly and looked at Typhus with lightly questioning eyes. Typhus only shrugged, suddenly wondering about the bible his father had left out on the stoop.
Morningstar turned to Beauregard: “The thing that you brought. Give it to me now.”
Dazed by the scene before him, Beauregard snapped alert to remove the tin from his leather pouch and stepped towards the preacher quickly; nerves jangling, heart pounding. Dropped the bag with its remaining items intended for luck to the floor, freeing both hands so he could focus on the tenant of the tin.
Pulled the lid off. Dropped the lid to the floor along with the bag. Clangedy-clang on the floor. Reached into the tin. Looked around at the others. Looked at the two-dimensional, daguerreotype Sicilian faces that stared from the walls. Said:
“Don’t ask me to explain this.” No one did.
Zig.
Beauregard did not remove the severed hand of Antonio Carolla gingerly between thumb and forefinger, but instead grasped it firmly, as one might clasp the hand of a seldom seen friend. Spoke to the hand’s former owner. “Well, old man, I sincerely hope this is what you had in mind.” He gave the hand of Antonio Carolla to Father Morningstar.
Zag.
A wave of doubt washed over Morningstar’s mind—but he shook it off quickly. “The father will save the son…” he intoned with weary eyes. “The father will save the son. The father will save the son. This is not right. This must be made right.”
Morningstar placed the severed hand of Antonio Carolla over the child’s chest, covering the honey-mixed herbs. The demon let out a short, pained shriek, and then changed.
The face of the child focused on Beauregard with soft eyes, speaking directly to him in odd rhythm and gentle tone, nearly a whisper:
“My brother, this, the second day of my birth, was not unlike your first—but of water—restrictive of motion till now, till this cutting of hand, this slicing of wrist, to deliver this now unto me with love in your heart as you have, this father’s hand, this way out and above water in order to cleanse of the earth, in the form of this boy, the son of a friend, of father to son and to brother of brother and now for father once more, though first intent was desecration for luck and for hope of fortune not earned, the intent is now changed, a deed sharing sameness with sin born of love, committed in hate, by she who has birthed, of anguish and rage, respectively we, and now it is he who was born Thomas that must complete the circle today and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…”
The cadence of the demon’s nonsensical rant diminished eventually to a mumble and then to nothing, the child falling once more into rigid catatonia, eyelids fallen shut again; rapid eye movement returning with fresh vigor.
Lips, a straight thin line, betraying neither emotion nor reason.
Beauregard Church stood motionless, silent.
Morningstar offered a hand to the mother. “Stand up, Mother. So that you may watch your child be saved.”
On wobbly knees, Anabella Carolla took the preacher’s hand and pulled herself to her feet. She at once recognized the small heart-shaped birthmark below the middle finger of her husband’s disembodied hand. “My ’Tonio.” She reached out to touch his pale index finger. Morningstar held her trembling hand back, his voice kind but firm:
“Shhhh. No. It will be all right. This is your husband’s gift to your son.” Then, after a brief pause: “He knew. Your husband knew. It will be all right now.”
The child’s breathing had become increasingly labored. Jack ran a finger across the smooth rail of the crib, looked down and in, whispered matter-of-factly and without expression,“Babaku.” A word for nameless African demons.
“No, Jack,” responded Morningstar. “This is no pagan demon. A Christian one. And it has a name.” As little Dominick’s chest stru
ggled to expand for air, the severed hand appeared to tremble of its own accord.
“The Christian demon has a name,” repeated Morningstar. This time for his own benefit, a reaffirmation of things witnessed in dreams.
Dominick’s chest stopped rising for air.
It was now clear that the autonomous movement of the hand was not illusion. A gentle massage of the child’s chest. A caress from a dead father. Anabella Carolla wiped her eyes, allowing them to widen in terror or hope. Marshall Trumbo stepped directly behind her, sensing she may faint, ready for her fall.
Trumbo spoke up. “The name of the demon, Father?”
Morningstar looked at him blank-faced. “Knowing the name would do you no good, son. No good at all.”
The preacher focused his attention back to the child—who had suddenly begun thrashing violently against the barred walls of the crib. Head and feet taking turns whipping up then down, a blind see-saw. Rhythmically. Beating against the loose fabric of the thin mattress:
Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
The rhythm’s reprise erased whatever lingering doubt Morningstar may have reserved. He spoke to those in the room:
“It is the demon himself who needs to be saved tonight. Without the demon’s redemption, the boy is lost. And so are we all.”
“Lookit the hand,” said Typhus in a whisper. “I don’t like it.”
The movement of the hand had picked up in speed, fingers kneading the taut skin of the boy’s chest frantically—pushing through skin. No, not pushing through—sinking in. The flesh of the dead man’s fingers was melting into and joining the flesh of the child. Fusing.
Anabella Carolla prayed something in Sicilian between lips barely parted, her hands flattening over her face, fingers spread just enough to allow herself fragmented witness, teetering on exhausted legs. Trumbo stood behind with his hands gently brushing her waist. Ready, once more, for her fall.
Morningstar faced the mother, laid a shaking hand on her shoulder. An imploring whisper: “Please, Mother. Leave God out of this. This business ain’t none of His. God has His own troubles to tend. His own house to clean. Let Him be.” Defying Morningstar’s instruction, Anabella Carolla only prayed louder.
In the crib, a change had begun.
“This isn’t right,” said Morningstar. “This isn’t supposed to happen. Ain’t the way I dreamt it.”
Dominick’s body had begun a visible transformation:
rebirthing
Arms pressed to sides, legs pressed together. Ears receding, mouth stretching wide, eyes separating, nose flattening. The red welts that had risen behind the ears had turned to slit-shaped holes, sucking in a tortured, thin stream of air. Whistling.
rebirthing
Diphtheria gasped. Buddy held her tight.
Dominick was transforming rapidly, his perfect, soft skin changing.
The sound that flew from his mother’s throat was a scream but not a scream; the note of an opera singer, high in pitch, full in tone, quivering with perfect vibrato, sustained. It was a beautiful sound, it was an ugly sound. During the mother’s note the child momentarily stopped thrashing, transformation interrupted.
Anabella Carolla’s note ran out of air. She fell to the ground, body and mind finally spent. Marshall Trumbo did not catch her.
The child began, once again, to thrash about.
Bap. Bap-bap. Buh-bap, bap, buh-bap.
Flesh resumed melting in on itself, the child’s original form degenerating once more.
rebirthing
It only took Jack a split second to ponder and appreciate the interruptive value of the mother’s note before turning quickly to Buddy:
“Boy. Blow that thing. Play loud and long and don’t stop for a breath. Play like the devil, boy. Blow it.” Buddy hesitated, perplexed. Jack, impatient: “NOW! Blow, blow, blow, blow, BLOW!”
Buddy Bolden raised his horn and sucked in air, lips encircling the mouthpiece.
Blow.
High in pitch, full in tone. Sustained. It was an awful sound, it was a beautiful sound.
The tune that came from Buddy’s horn was a spiritual. Buddy blew from his very core, the root of the sound coming from a place in his soul he was previously unaware of.
The notes came out two octaves higher than he had intended.
The notes held, dipped, leapt and crashed. But didn’t crash.
It took several moments before Buddy realized his fingers were splayed and spread wide, holding up the instrument with only the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, not touching the keys at all with the left. Only with this realization, and with the uncalculated sensitivity of a lover, did he lay his fingers upon the keys; following the path of their course in progress, paying attention to their meaning, feeling their odd warmth, interpreting their need, their apparent longing. Understanding the healing quality of the sound. The joy in it.
joy
Typhus recognized the song right away.
Troubled about my soul…
His rebirthing song. The one he sang to calm his babies at the river. The one that just felt right. And then he knew.
Typhus Morningstar moved to the edge of the crib, his eyes meeting Doctor Jack’s for confirmation. Jack nodded, said:
“Yes, Typhus.” And to Noonday Morningstar: “Let him work. Don’t stop him. This is what he needs to do. What he’s been practicing for, what he was born for. Let him.”
Typhus lifted himself up and over the railing of the crib. Laid his hands on the body of Dominick Carolla.
Noonday Morningstar fell to his knees, face in hands, weeping; and then spoke to his God; “Damn you. Damn you straight to hell.”
Buddy Bolden played on.
Ride on Jesus, come this way
Chapter eleven
Night Fishing
On a pier off the levee less than a mile from the little house where very odd matters of the spirit were currently unfolding, a gravedigger and devout Christian known by most folks as Marcus Nobody Special had caught a fish.
The night was black and starless; the only light offered up to human eyes came from the bobbing smudge pots on the river, warning ships to keep away, to dock further up if at all. Turning the water into a million slices of sparkly lemon, embedded like jewels, loosely in darkness.
He held the catfish in two hands. It was a small one, maybe two pounds. He unhooked its mouth and stroked its rough scales gently, carefully. It squirmed and wiggled at his touch. Its flesh was brown with streaks of pink. It moved with a rhythm that struck Marcus as vaguely familiar.
“Sorry, old man, didn’t mean to interrupt yer nightswimmin’.” Shook his head sadly and added: “Not my dern fish. Not my fish at all. But I’ll get ’im. Yessir.”
He looked up at the lines of smoke that crept from the smudge pots, creasing the blackness of the sky into something blacker still. He was surprised to find tears in his eyes. Marcus hadn’t shed a real tear in nearly forty years. Not since his Coffee Maria had taken sick and died way back in 1853.
“Always something blacker, I reckon.”
He dropped the fish back in the water. Wondering if he had done right in his life.
Chapter twelve
Catfish Blues
Buddy Bolden played on.
The devil is mad and I am glad…
The small fingers of Typhus Morningstar caressed and pulled at the scaly pink flesh of Dominick Carolla, rebirthing in reverse. Tugging at ears, tracing at seams with fingertips: careful, sculpting the head and face back into human form. Sliding fingers between fused legs, separating. Pulling arms away from sides, gently but firmly. Massaging gills behind little ears, closing them, smoothing them over. Rubbing the father’s severed hand, pushing down, melting the hand into the flesh of the child’s soft chest, feeling the sticky mixture of honey, onions and broken crumbs of bloodroot. The flesh was warm and soft as clay, but its color was turning from pink to gray. The child had become whole again. The child was not breathing.
T
yphus Morningstar had the gift of understanding.
He bent down and sucked his lungs full of cold, dry air: held. Placed his lips to the lips of the child. Blew. Steady, even.
He lost one soul that he thought he had…
As Typhus blew, Buddy Bolden’s cornet flew from his mouth and slipped from his hands; clanking to the ground, denting the horn slightly and permanently at the rim. The instrument made a noisy fuss against the hard floor before settling.
Quiet.
Dominick Carolla’s eyes slammed open. Little eyes filled with rage. Rage not human. Black rage. The demon blew back into the throat of the rebirther.
Typhus’s small body shot back violently against the side of the crib like a rag doll, then bounced to the mattress in a small, tremulous heap. Typhus tried blowing the foul air back out, but could not.
A baby’s cry filled the room. A normal, healthy, frightened cry. The sweetly tragic sound of a one-year-old jerked from deep sleep. Dominick’s skin was pink again, shiny with sweat. Anabella Carolla scooped her son up and out of the crib, into her arms, muttering: “grazie, grazie, grazie, grazie…”
Typhus Morningstar lay unconscious in the corner of the crib, his eyes closed but moving rapidly beneath his lids. His lungs struggled for breath.
Father Morningstar lifted his son from the crib. Laid him down on the carpet that was not quite at the center of the room. Tore open Typhus’ shirt, scraped once more at the small jar with trembling fingers, spreading remnants of honey potion on the boy’s chest, shouting between sobs:
“Hast thou come to kiss this child? I will not let thee kiss him. Hast thou come to send him to sleep? I will not let thee do him harm.”
Noonday Morningstar’s hand began to fuse with his son’s chest through the honey mixture. Typhus stopped breathing altogether, red welts rising rapidly behind his ears.
The Sound of Building Coffins Page 6